How Dear Is Life (3 page)

“What is a broker, sir?”

“A broker, my lad, is a superior form of commission agent. Just as an Esquire, so described on a domestic policy, is a superior form of the general description, Gentleman. Now don’t you go and call Mr. Tate, when you make out the policy for the new country house he is building for sixty thousand pounds, a Gentleman. He’s an Esquire. He wouldn’t like it if he found himself among the sort of people, worthy folk as no doubt they are, insured under the agency of Mr. L. Dicks or even of the good grey Konigswinter! If in any doubt, ask me. See?”

“Yes, Mr. Hollis.”

Mr. Tate had recently come into the office. He was a beefy man with a very big red face, and a genial, hearty manner. He wore, Phillip noticed, a short vicuna jacket like his own, and with it the shiniest and biggest silk hat he had seen in the Lane so far. Indeed, he had been so impressed by the shininess of the hat of what Mr. Hollis called the Sugar King, that an idea had come to him as exciting as it was tempting: he would buy for himself such a hat when he got his first salary cheque. Why not? It was obviously correct, with vicuna jacket and striped trousers. Mr. Hollis sometimes came into the office so dressed, but with a morning tail-coat; so did Downham. They came through the door seemingly a little faster on these occasions, and certainly looking taller. On the other hand, Mr. Howlett always wore a lounge suit and a bowler, entering slowly, in his usual strolling walk. Mr. Howlett lived in Highgate, where, he told Phillip, were big carp in the ponds near his house. However, none of the fishermen on the banks ever seemed to catch them, he said, with a short laugh.

“Well you know, it largely depends on the bait, sir,” said Phillip. “If they used aniseed on dough, well kneaded with cotton wool, the carp would not be able to suck it off. I got a fairly big
carp like that, one day, in one of my uncle’s ponds in the country.
”

“Where was that, in the Heybridge Basin?” asked Downham, with a laugh.

“No,” said Phillip. “As a matter’r fact, it was at a place called Brickhill. The ponds there swarm with perch and roach, too.
And
duck, in season, flight there from the Duke’s moors.”

Phillip wondered if he could get Uncle Jim Pickering to transfer his insurance policy to the Moon. That would show Downham! Would he be an Esquire? Probably not; all the same, he was a seed merchant, and secretary of the local gas company.

Out of curiosity, when he was alone for a few minutes, he looked up Hollis’ policy. It was for
£
300, Household Goods, at a house at Woking in Surrey. Hollis had written it out himself,
Harold
Fazackerley
Hollis
,
Esquire
!
There it was, in his galloping writing, with a Waverley nib. Then he looked up Mr. Howlett’s policy. He was for
£
450 Domestic Goods, and
£
850 the brick built and slated house. Mr. Howlett was only a Gentleman. Mr. Howlett had also made out his own policy.

However, Mr. Hollis had a very distinguished father-in-law
.
Mr. Hollis had told him that he was Carl ton Turnham, the famous civil engineer who had been responsible for the new kind of sewerage plant of a big town in Surrey, a new and epoch-making design. The effluent, said Mr. Hollis, was spread over six hundred acres of specially planted rye-grass. The area was divided so that the grass was fertilised one year, and left for hay the next. The bumper hay crop every year paid most of the urban district council’s sanitary department’s wages. “There’s economy for you, and a useful distribution of waste products!” Phillip was duly impressed.

Very important men, he learned from Mr. Hollis, had offices in the Lane. They were Household Names in sugar, tea, and coffee. Had he been to see the Cloth Hall? Then he should. The Corn Exchange in Mark Lane, nearby, was worth visiting, too. All the corn that fed London and the barleys that supplied the great breweries passed through a few hands there, in samples only of course, he said. At times Mr. Hollis was almost an enthusiastic as Gran’pa and Mother were, about the City. Fancy preferring that sort of thing to birds and fish! He dared to say so, one day. Mr. Hollis looked at him intently.

“I yield to no one in my love of Outdoors, my young would-be Waterton, but do you realize that in the City, in which you are privileged to earn your bread and butter, nearly three quarters of a million workers run almost the entire country? Think a moment what that means, my lad! Approximately seven hundred and fifty thousand toiling souls—less you and Edgar over there, of course—Edgar, get on with your work!—seriously, Maddison, it is a fact that approximately three-quarters of a million people, all more or less experts in the various branches of commerce, banking, and insurance, arrive in this square mile every morning, and depart again in the afternoon, more rather than less to the suburbs, most of them—again excepting you and Edgar—stop grinning, Edgar!—as I was saying, seriously, Maddison—all joking apart—what the hell are
you
smirking at?—shipping clerks, insurance men, typists, shop-keepers, bank-clerks, and many other decent and respectable people with inherited skills and techniques of a thousand years—since the Romans left, in fact, and the Danes and Saxons were absorbed, and one of my ancestors, Baron Holies—spelt with an ‘e’ and not an ‘i’, according to the family records—Ah, hullo, Thistlethwaite! And a good day to you, too!”

Phillip was beginning to recognise many of the regular callers. Mr. Thistlethwaite was one of them. He was a Broker. He always wore a top hat, an old-fashioned frock coat, and new-fashioned dark-pearl button boots with fawn cloth sides. Mr. Thistlethwaite had a very big moustache, which looked as though it had been waxed at one time, but the wax had never been properly washed out. Mr. Thistlethwaite always greeted Mr. Hollis in a loud, hearty voice, which dropped, as though it belonged to a bass-viol, to a gutty sort of grumble as Mr. Thistlethwaite leaned over Mr. Hollis’ desk and recounted his grievance against the Metropolitan Insurance Company, which had dismissed him, for some reason or other, Phillip gathered, with an offer of six months salary as an
ex
gratia
payment. Mr. Thistlethwaite, who had started an agency in Crutched Friars, was going to fight them, he said. What did Hollis think?

Mr. Hollis demurred. He said that he was not really competent to give advice. But he knew all about the case, insisted Mr. Thistlethwaite. It was rather complicated, said Mr. Hollis. Anyway, he wished him good luck. Phillip signed a receipt for a new
£
2,400 Domestic policy, made out to an Esquire, and waited quietly to give it to the tall top-hatted figure, who took it without glance or word, Mr. Thistlethwaite being too intent on watching Mr. Hollis’ brown, studious face.

As soon as Mr. Thistlethwaite had gone out of the glass-panelled door, Mr. Hollis let fly with his real opinion.

“Thistlethwaite’s a first-class bloody fool, Downham! How can the great ass fight the Metropolitan in the courts for wrongful dismissal, since they’ve given him the excuse of reorganisation and redundancy, and offered him six months’ screw? Well, I tried to tell the silly blighter many times, but he won’t listen. What the devil are you beaming at me for, young Maddison? Get on with your work, you look like one of your own stuffed birds, you horrible taxidermist, you!”

Phillip had been unconscious of beaming at Mr. Hollis: he liked Mr. Hollis’ face, and was always interested in what he said. Mr. Hollis was already frowning over his own work, so he went on preparing his policy, after a glance at the clock. His time of leaving for Head Office first luncheon was ten minutes to twelve; he had to be back again by half-past.

Downham left for his luncheon at a quarter-past twelve. He was supposed to be back by ten-past one, but he usually arrived
back any time up to half-past one, the time when Mr. Howlett came down the leaden stairs, smoking his pipe; and, after an amiable word to Phillip, and smiling talk with Downham, went to his luncheon, usually at the London Tavern. Mr. Howlett’s time of returning, smoking the same pipe, was between a quarter to three and three o’clock.

“Lazy blighter,” remarked Mr. Hollis once, to Phillip. “If I didn’t stir my stumps and do most of his work for him, this branch would have to close down.” Downham, on the other hand, never criticised Mr. Howlett, but treated him like a favourite uncle, always careful to call him ‘sir’.

“Hollis is jealous of Howlett,” said Downham once, quietly, to Phillip, with a kind of satisfaction. The two were alone, Edgar having gone to a sandwich shop in Leadenhall Market for his twopenny meal—cheese sandwich and cup of Camp coffee. “Hollis likes to please himself, so Howlett gives him his head. On the other hand, Hollis thinks that Howlett ought to go out more after new business. I say, look at this! How dare you! Why in the name of all that’s not insane did you sign this endorsement like that?”

Looking angry suddenly, Downham brought over two policies, both with printed change-of-address labels stuck on the back—
notwithstanding anything herein contained to the contrary, it is hereby
agreed and allowed that the Insured’s address shall be deemed to be as
hereinunder stated.
The first endorsement was signed by Phillip with an enormous scrawled signature six inches long, in letters an inch high. “Is this your idea of a joke?” He pointed to the second endorsement, signed with extreme neatness in minute letters barely one-eighth of an inch high, and three-quarters of an inch in length. The first policy was one of Mr. L. Dicks, the fish-and-chips smeller; the second for the neat Mr. J. Konigswinter.

After Downham’s complaint, he put on a subdued expression and went on with his work. When Mr. Howlett came in, Downham showed him the two endorsements.

“Look at this, sir, did you ever see such asinine behaviour?” Mr. Howlett appeared to be highly amused. “I’ve ticked him off, sir,” said Downham, in lowered voice.

“I see,” replied Mr. Howlett, nodding to Phillip, as he went up the leaden stairs to his room. This was a dark place, being lit from the Lane outside only along the floor by the top
arc of the bow window below. When Mr. Howlett was there, the electric light was always switched on.

Mr. Hollis wrote three of the letters which had to be copied by Phillip every afternoon for Mr. Howlett’s one. All were in copying ink, from which an impression was taken when they were laid between damped flimsy sheets in the big leather-bound book and screwed down in the basement press. The letters were then taken out, and when dried, folded by Phillip and put in their envelopes, for Edgar to stamp. There were big sheets of penny and halfpenny stamps in Edgar’s drawer, which once a week Phillip was supposed to check.

Downham sometimes wrote letters on the Branch Office writing paper, which Phillip copied. They were about his own insurances, for which he received the usual fifteen per cent commission. Mr. Hollis explained that members of the staff were not allowed to be agents for the Moon Fire Office; so they put them through Mr. Potts, of the Accident Department, on the top floor of Head Office. The Accident Department was a recent addition, and the clerks there were not on the staff, so they could be agents for fire business. The commissions on premiums therefore were paid through F. Potts, who obligingly signed the receipts.

*

One day Phillip had an ambition to write a letter on Branch Office paper, sign it, press it in the Copy Book, and have it stamped and posted by Edgar. He wrote to T. W. Turney, Esq., of Wespalaer, Hillside Road, Wakenham, Kent, beginning
Dear
Sir
,
and suggesting that he should transfer both business and domestic insurances to the Wine Vaults Branch of the above Office, at the same rates of premium as he paid now. He assumed that his present insurance was with a tariff company, and therefore the rate would be the same. But, added the writer, chuckling as he wrote, should it so happen that the firm of Messrs. Carter, Mallard & Turney, Ltd., was on the Black List of the Tariff Companies, then notwithstanding anything herein contained to the contrary, it was hereby understood and agreed that the offer was deemed to be cancelled.

The letter was duly posted, and Phillip awaited results from his joke.

They were not long in coming. Downham, who had gone to the basement to wash his hands, came leaping up the stairs again
three at a time, Copy Book under an arm. He banged it down beside Phillip, who was making out a short-period policy for merchandise at the Free Trade Wharf.

“You’ve done it this time, my wildfowling young Christian friend of a first-class bloody fool! What in the name of all that’s holy do you think you are doing?” At that moment the door above opened, as Mr. Howlett prepared to descend. “If this is your idea of a joke, Maddison, all I can say is that you’ve missed your vocation. You should be on the Halls! Here, Hollis, I leave you to deal with our comic genius!” He showed Mr. Hollis the copy of the letter.

Mr. Hollis exploded. “Who in the name of the devil do you think
you
are? The Deputy Assistant Undeveloped Moon Calf of Wine Vaults Lane? And take that grin off your face, and that damned pen from behind your ear! What do you think this Office is? A basement bucket shop, run on half commission? And who the hell are you anyway to sign letters on behalf of the Branch?” The explosion ended abruptly: a smile broke over Mr. Hollis’ face as he said, “Don’t look at me like Tiny Tim Cratchit.”

Almost eagerly Mr. Howlett was descending the leaden stairs to enjoy the latest perturbation of H. Fazackerley Hollis, of whose occasional criticisms of himself he was well aware. He regarded them with tolerance, since he fully appreciated his right-hand man’s ability and drive for new business. There was a difference of eight years in seniority between them.

Downham placed the open Copy Book on the mahogany slab between Phillip’s desk and that of Mr. Hollis in the corner by the window. Then in his rich baritone voice, with its usual friendly deference whenever he was speaking to the manager, he read aloud the letter. Mr. Howlett listened, looking over Downham’s shoulder, while one wing of his high starched collar stuck in the loose fold of his neck, Phillip noticed. Mr. Howlett seemed to be amused.